HEAVILY INFLUENCED BY 135 SEOUL BY CHANGVISON/CHANGDICTATOR; I TAKE ABSOLUTELY 0 CREDIT FOR THE PLOT IDEA.

It’s all the same, Kibum thinks.

All the same pictures; soulless, bloodied bodies plastered on small 135 film, for confirmation or reassurance, Kibum stopped differentiating between the two.

Same contract, sending him to press his blade deep into the esophagus of a middle aged man in a back alley somewhere in New York, or driving a bullet through the skull of some businesswoman in her apartment in Beijing.  

Same coldness; present in the middle of summer on the highways of Arizona, or early autumn in the front seat of a car driving down Seoul’s busiest streets. Coldness; figuratively seeping into his skin and freezing his bones and muscles; becoming something like numbness; a sort of stiffness in his joints that he chooses to simply ignore; a bittersweet reminder that his heart still beats and keeps him alive.

Thinking is something that Kibum avoids. The lack of thought presses him forward, lets him wallow guiltlessly in late night shots of whiskey, or far too early cups of coffee. So he doesn’t think as he drives the sleek white finish of his McLaren MP4-12C straight into the side of the concrete dividers of the highway, the screeching of metal bending in on itself assaulting the peaceful stillness of morning. Hardly budging as he presses the brake to the floor, the car lurching to a dead halt on the side of the road. Doesn’t lean back, but simply closes his eyes as the windshield shatters and flames begin to engulf the hood of the car and follow trails of petroleum spilling out of the broken internal portions. Abandoning his camera in his seat, the 3am moonlight creates a chilling contrast of blue against orange and red, the blaze the asphalt yet cascading into the air, seemingly trying to reach something that’s out of their grasp.

Kibum leaves it like that, the time bomb ticking along with the crackling of the fire in the back seat. He doesn’t flinch when debris are thrown past him, so near that his overcoat pulls just a hair out of place. He doesn’t avoid because he’s not afraid of the pain of impact. Ghosts can’t feel pain.

Black gloved fingers toy with the film in his pocket, weighing him down like an extra pull of gravity on a falling object. Perhaps, Kibum thinks, that’s all he truly is; a falling object, bound by the gravity of his lack of existence to land in the same spot, which is inevitably a corpse, somewhere floating down a river in a foreign country, or strewn across the container of someone’s 135, only to be exchanged for capitol to fuel their own void of actuality.

He barely registers that there’s another person until he’s standing within 6 feet of the man. Kibum stares him down, despite his tall stature compared to himself. The man had curly, auburn hair that was a bit too long, brushing his eyelashes that bordered his dark brown eyes; broad shoulders that would have made most normal people intimidated. Kibum doesn’t get intimidated. But he didn’t miss the small rush of feeling as the man took another step, drawing closer.

“Now what would you do that for?” The man asks, and his deep voice leaves Kibum scrambling for a clue.

Because Kibum doesn’t understand how it could affect him in the most miniscule of ways, let alone how it did. Words don’t affect Kibum, people don’t affect Kibum. So what was so special about this man?

For whatever reason, Kibum decides to answer with a simple “Because it had no real value, it was simply out of necessity.”

The man appears to be in shock, and seemingly observes Kibum for long, agonizing moments before calmly holding out his hand, a smile on his face.

“I’m Park Chanyeol.” Kibum just stares at the extended hand; not comprehending why this ‘Chanyeol’ was communicating with him, when clearly he’d just observed Kibum purposely wrecking his two-hundred thousand dollar car at three in the morning, with no definitive explanation. Realizing he’s going to get no action from Kibum, Chanyeol lowers his hand, but that same idiotic smile stays on his face. Kibum wonders if he has any idea of whom he’s speaking with, then he remembers that no, of course he doesn’t. Technically, Kibum doesn’t exist. Someone can’t meet someone who’s dead.

Kibum leaves Chanyeol there, on the side of the road in front of a pile of blazing metal, and Chanyeol just smiles and watches him leave, hands shoved deep into pockets to keep warm, while Kibum shoves his hands in his to keep them cold.